


Food, Scotch, and Sex

by LyingTurtle



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Intoxication, M/M, Mark Is Mentally Adrift
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-20 20:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyingTurtle/pseuds/LyingTurtle
Summary: Food, scotch, and sex, those are things to live for right?  Mark still feels trapped, Damien doesn't know what he wants, and they're both rather impulsive people.





	1. Food

It feels like you're living mostly out of memories at this point.

You hear you sisters voice, talking about nothing in particular, just speaking. You see Sam moving in and out of that prison of a time period, more free than you could ever be without realizing it. You can see that room in the AM, just as bored and scared as everyday you spent in there.

Then you wake up, and you're somewhere new. It's always new, everything is new. You never got to travel much before your kidnapping and even though every Motel 7 from one coast to the other is decorated exactly the same, it's new and that's exciting.

Sleep, dream, wake up, eat. Rinse and repeat from city to city. Nothing to track time, nothing to ground you in place, nothing to convince you that you're really free.

Except him.

Damien always seems to be there exactly when you wake up, arms full of food or movies or new clothes, anything they needed he thought of and provided for. You want to thank him, and you do say your appreciations, but you know deep down you haven't come around to believing he's your knight in white.

If you're grateful for anything though, it's the food. Not just because it brings a much needed relief to your focus, but he spends every meal talking to you. Sitting face to face, eating the same food, talking to each other like adults, it almost felt like equality.

Maybe because food was the only thing that seemed to break the tension that Damien held about him. Over chicken soup you got him to talk about movies he liked, over sushi he told you about how he got you out of the AM, over gyros he talked about what he wanted to learn how to play the guitar. Such casual things were such an intimate thing to extract from him, as if he didn't know that these were normal things people just discussed.

It was over a carton of ice cream between the two of you that he told you about the first girl he slept with.  
You thought maybe the moose tracks were magic because you reciprocated and told him about the first boy you slept with.  
Damien's eyes lit up like fireworks with interest as you continued blabbering on, talking about the way he kissed your neck, gripped your hair, made you gasp. How he sucked you off in a locker room, the way the excitement sent your heart bounding from feeling like you were in control and completely at his mercy at the same time with your back pressed against the wall.

You stopped when you noticed how much you had leaned in towards Damien and how much you had told him. He seemed to shake something off his shoulders and the pressing need to tell him everything dissipated as quickly as it had begun. The two of you sat in silence until he apologized.  
You forgave him.  
He gave you the rest of the ice cream.


	2. Scotch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's that time of year in college where I was getting drunk on a wensday and I ran out of wine so I took a shot of this CRAP scotch, and it tasted like wood and almonds but in a rubbing alcohol kind of way, and I was so inspired and drunk that I opened up the work and churned out chapter two like nobody's business. Maybe one day I'll upload all the drunk versions of the fan fiction I write but today you get the sober edited version, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also don't get drunk on a wensday, it's just trashy.

  
One day he comes back with a bottle of scotch. Where the hell did he get scotch? Why the hell did he get scotch?

He doesn't ask if you want any, he's pouring you a glass and by the time he hands it to you, you've already made up your mind that you want it. You're still getting used to figuring out what your wants are versus his, but you don't have time to dissect this action before the glass is at your lips and you're scowling something awful.

“This tastes like shit” the burn in your throat is almost as bad as the one on your tongue, the faint taste of roasted almonds and cedar wood somewhere mixed in. You don't remember scotch tasting like that.

“Well sorry for trying to spoil you” he's not sorry and you both know it. He thinks he's a hero. You don't mind though. He makes a competition out of downing the glass first. He wins. You make a competition out of mixing it with something to make it not taste like piss. You both have to call it a draw, nothing helps.

You ask him why he got this crap, he explains that he liked the art on the bottle and so the clerk came out of the store and handed it to him. You try and tell him that's no excuse but he isn't listening, he says something about how it's tribute to the king and it makes you scoff.

Two more glasses, it tastes less like rubbing alcohol and more like freedom so you have another. Damien sings you an Irish drinking song and the scotch nearly comes out your nose you're laughing so hard. Your whole face burns afterwards but the bed is soft beneath you and the TV is blaring something with enough voices that makes you feel like it's not just the two of you, and that makes it okay.

The lights are off, the curtains are open to let in the lamplight from the parking lot, the TV is alive with a mostly blue hue. Leaning up beside you is Damien all dark eyed and drunken smile, dark T shirt and darker jeans that seemed to never be in or out of style.

Apparently not as much time has passed as you think because he's asking you what your tribute will be. You tell him there's no way you can repay him for the drinking shanty, there's nothing you can give him because he gave you everything you have. The words don't come out that poetic you're sure but that's what you try and communicate. You don't know why you don't stop talking. You tell him all you've got is your body.

He tells you that will do.

Arms lacing around his neck, you pull yourself up, he gets pulled down, nothing feels wrong about kissing him. His arm is by your side as he bridges over you, kissing you again, sending shocks down your spine and one hand travel down his back to bring him closer against you.

It feels like high school, every touch so intense, every movement bringing a flurry of questions as to how far this is going to go. A hand tentatively meets your side and the contact of his fingers on your skin where your shirt is hiked up feels like a heat lamp pressing into you. It feels like a first kiss.

You open your eyes.

This is not your first kiss.

You move your head away, breaking the contact. Hands move to his shoulders and gently push him without putting any force behind it. Damien moves off you without being asked.

Suddenly the TV is on some woman in a cooking show, the lamplight outside is too bright, and Damien is just a guy you barely know and don't know. The mood is gone and something uncomfortable and weighted had rushed in to fill its space.

“Did you…” Did you make me do that, was it on purpose, was it an accident, do I want it to be an accident, was it me, did I take your first kiss, do you hate me now, do you want me now, did we just ruin something, “Did you drink too much?” You feel like a coward.

“Uh, yeah probably. You too huh?” He scratches his head, he's as far away as he can be on the bed from you, hovering like he's afraid to leave it before you've got it settled.

“Guess I lost my alcohol tolerance after two years” he chuckles dryly at that, head hanging a bit.

“You should probably go to bed, we've gotta be out of here tomorrow” you swallow a lump in your throat because there's only one bed and sharing it wasn't a problem before but now it feels like a cliff you weren't ready to jump off into. He notices this because he hasn't stopped watching you like a hawk from the corner of his eye. “I, uh, I'm gonna take a shower” you nod and wait till he's gone to shrug off your shirt and crawl under the blankets, turning off the TV and letting the silence sink into your skin. You prayed the alcohol would knock you out immediately but you were still awake by the time the bathroom door opened and he stepped out.

You kept your eyes shut and your breathing slow, showing all the signs of sleep as he got dressed and threw the towel on the floor for someone else to pick up tomorrow. The sound of his steps, bare feet on carpet came closer to the bed, slipping in beside you without so much as backing the mattress bounce.

“Mark” his voice is a whisper but it's large enough that you can practically see the letters flying at you. You take a long, slow breath to prove you aren't awake and he rolls onto his back, giving up. You are officially a coward.


End file.
